every now and then she looks at our clasped hands and smiles, a tiny slash of her lips that’s both amused and, for some reason, smug. “Okay, enough,” I say finally when she does it again. I close the refrigerator and then nod at her. “What’s with the smirking?” Her smile widens as she attempts to pull her hand away. “Mine,” I say with a frown, holding tighter.
